Tess of the D'Urbervilles

Thomas Hardy

Tess of the D’Urbervilles by Thomas Hardy is the story of a young woman brought down by circumstances beyond her control. The setting is Hardy’s fictional Wessex.

Tess Durbeyfield is the eldest of several children. She has assumed the role of parenting her siblings since both parents have abdicated their responsibilities. Tess blames herself for causing an unfortunate accident resulting in the death of their only horse. This begins a series of unfortunate circumstances and coincidences, catapulting Tess from one disaster to another.

Her parents exploit her feelings of guilt and send her out into the world to claim kin from their ostensible relatives, the wealthy D’Urbervilles. The beautiful young Tess is hounded by the son, Alec.

Tess is in her element in nature. She is associated with nature, the rustic outdoors, and natural purity. Most of the novel takes place on country roads, in woods or fields in a Wessex bustling with agricultural activity. Hardy’s strength lies in his depiction of the pastoral environment. The language describing animals and landscape is lush with natural abundance. He draws the reader in with diction that is detailed, immersive, visual, and stunningly beautiful. He laments the changing world of labor, setting up a contrast between traditional rural labor and the introduction of threshing machines that dehumanize the laborer.

Tess is seen to be glaringly out of place against the incursions of modernity. Hardy portrays her as a pure, innocent young girl, more comfortable in nature than in society. Her beauty and innocence work against her, making her prey to an unscrupulous predator. Her parents fail her; men who claim to love her abuse and abandon her; and a society riddled with injustice and a gendered double standard is quick to condemn her. Hardy evokes sympathy and compassion for his heroine while critiquing the society that gives rise to her tragic circumstances.

This timeless classic is a plea for social justice. Tess is victimized by socially constructed laws that conspire to discriminate against women—laws that privilege men over women, laws that blame women when they are victimized by the men who exert power over them. Hardy is unabashedly on the side of women. He uses as his vehicle a young, innocent girl betrayed by everyone around her and condemned unfairly by society. In Tess he has created one of the most memorable protagonists in literature. She garners sympathy, compassion, and pity in her pleas for understanding and in her attempts to overcome the myriad of obstacles thrust in her way.

In this his second to last novel, Hardy makes an eloquent plea for social justice and equality.

Highly recommended.

Butcher's Crossing

John Williams

Butcher’s Crossing by John Williams is not so much a novel about the wild west as it is a novel set in the west—in Kansas and Colorado of the 1870s, to be precise. It is a bildungsroman and so much more.

A young Will Andrews leaves Harvard in search of adventure and in search of himself. He heads to Butcher’s Crossing in Kansas lured by the wildness of the wide, open spaces of the west. After a meeting with Miller, an experienced buffalo hunter, Will agrees to finance an expedition to Colorado to hunt for buffalo. Accompanying them on the hunt are Charley Hoge and Fred Schneider. The tasks are assigned: Miller kills the buffalo; Charley cooks; Schneider skins the buffalo with Will as his apprentice. After a long, arduous journey across Kansas and the mountains of Colorado, the hunting party encounters a herd of nearly 5,000 buffalo. A veritable frenzy of killing and skinning ensues.

The narrative unfolds in third person limited omniscient point of view with a focus on Will. He is a novice at the beginning of the killing spree, overcome with the stench, the blood, and the sheer numbers of dead buffalo piling up. Under Schneider’s tutelage, he learns to skin buffalo and soon grows accustomed to the stench of buffalo hide and rotting buffalo meat. The buffalo hides pile up until Miller has wiped out nearly the whole herd. Even though winter is looming on the horizon, Miller refuses to head home until he has killed every last buffalo. He becomes a man obsessed. And then it is too late. The snows set in and the hunting party is forced to spend several months sheltering until Spring. The survivors make it back to Butcher’s Crossing only to discover the town and so much more has changed.

In diction that is unsentimental and attentive to detail, Williams has produced a timeless masterpiece. The pace is slow and steady. The characters are vividly portrayed, from the whiskey-drinking, bible-thumping Charley; to the cantankerous Schneider; to the inexperienced Will. Miller, the skilled buffalo hunter, looms larger than life with his knowledge of the terrain and impressive survival skills. But he assumes the guise of an Ahab in his obsession to kill more and more buffalo.

Williams sets his characters in a landscape rich in immersive detail. The stench, the heat, the snow, the dust, the blood, the aching bodies, the mosquitoes, the beans, the coffee, and above all, the buffalo all mingle together in a vivid backdrop. Against this backdrop, the men are exposed to extreme situations and reduced to their most fundamental elements.

The novel is about the human need to find purpose. It is about man pitted against nature. It is about resilience and survival against overwhelming odds. It is about a man’s coming of age. It is about man’s insatiable appetite for more and the greed that reduces men to butchers ravaging pillaging the environment in the name of profit and littering the land with evidence of their carnage.

The novel is set in the west. But it is not just about the west. It is about more than that. It is so much more than the sum of its parts.

My Name is Lucy Barton

Elizabeth Strout

My Name is Lucy Barton by Elizabeth Strout unfolds in the first-person point of view of a writer desperate to reconcile with her estranged mother and struggling to make sense of her upbringing in a dysfunctional and abusive family. The novel is framed as an extended flashback.

Lucy Barton spends several weeks in hospital after experiencing complications from a routine surgery. She wakes up one morning only to find her estranged mother sitting in her hospital room. Her mother’s unexpected presence conjures up childhood memories. The mother-daughter dialogue is tentative at first. But eventually they get into the swing of gossiping about Lucy’s friends from school, who is married, who is divorced, and whatever happened to so-and so. Peppered throughout are descriptions of Lucy’s poverty-ridden childhood, a childhood riddled with deprivation and suggesting cruelty and abuse. Lucy skirts around these issues, never confronting her mother for fear of upsetting her.

The novel consists of a series of vignettes from Lucy’s childhood interspersed with conversations with her mother. Lucy values the change she hears in her mother’s voice when she adopts a story-telling voice in speaking of the people they knew. It makes no difference what her mother says as long as she continues to talk. Lucy is eager to garner whatever information she can about her father’s time in the war and about her mother’s struggles with raising children. But her mother is never forthcoming with details. She prefers to engage in gossipy babble.

Lucy flashes back to her childhood, her marriage, her two children, and her struggles to become a writer. She flashes forward, briefly mentioning the death of her mother, her divorce years after her hospital stay, and her re-marriage. But the information is fragmentary, so the reader never gets a complete picture.

Very little happens in the novel. But in the character of Lucy Barton, Elizabeth Strout has created a complex woman desperate to connect with her mother while trying to come to terms with her past. She reverts to her childlike self when hearing her mother’s story-telling voice. But as an adult, she craves more. She wants recognition and acknowledgement of her accomplishments from a woman who is incapable of giving it openly.

This is a story of a woman who loves her mother and a mother who loves her daughter but is incapable of showing it. What emerges is the complex nature of this mother-daughter relationship, a relationship fraught with tension. Simmering underneath their love for one another is a layer of unexpressed emotions, unasked questions, repressed recriminations, and buried pain. Elizabeth Strout captures the tension in straightforward diction and a detached tone devoid of sentimentality.

Foster

Claire Keegan

Foster by Claire Keegan is a quiet, tender story about a young Irish girl’s stay with foster parents during a summer.

The story unfolds in the first-person point of view of the young girl. Her father unceremoniously drops her off at a farm to live with her mother’s relatives while her mother prepares to have yet another child. Initially, the girl takes tremulous steps in her unfamiliar surroundings. She is fearful of doing the wrong thing and anticipates a verbal reprimand—or worse—at every turn. Instead, the foster couple shower her with love, and a kindness and respect she has never known. She compares the cramped atmosphere in her home with the expansive atmosphere in her foster parents’ home. Astute and observant, she is attuned to subtle changes in those around her. Slowly but surely, the girl blossoms, becoming more confident and secure in the routine of their daily lives.

There is little to no plot in the story. The movement is slow; the diction lyrical. Keegan’s prose is subtle, leaving the reader to fill in the gaps and draw conclusions. She hints at the girl’s challenging home life in a poverty-stricken family with more children than her parents can handle. The story builds up slowly to the final, heart-breaking scene when the girl has to return home to her parents.

A touching, beautiful story that unfolds in subtle diction and subdued tone.

Dead Souls

Nikolai Gogol; translated by Andrew MacAndrew

 First published in 1842, Nikolai Gogol’s Dead Souls tells the story of Chichikov, a middle-aged man, as he arrives in a small town and begins to purchase “dead souls” from their landowners. At that time, landowners were taxed according to the number of serfs they owned. They were required to pay taxes for all of them until the next census even for those serfs who had died in the interim. Chichikov purchases the deceased serfs in name only, claiming them as his possession and relieving the landlord of paying their tax. His reason for doing so is not revealed until the end of the novel. He encounters corrupt officials and various landlords, all of whom are willing to support him until rumors circulate, accusing him of nefarious activities.

Chichikov’s exploits form the backdrop of what is essentially a satire. Gogol satirizes Russian society with its rampant hypocrisy, corruption, unethical behaviors, and bureaucratic quagmire. He exposes its warts to rouse the reader into implementing change. His satire is threaded with humor. His characters are caricatures but each is assigned with a unique set of quirks.

The most enjoyable aspect of the novel is not the story of Chichikov, or of why he purchases dead souls, or the parade of caricatures. It is the narrative voice with its whimsy, humor, sarcasm, asides, digressions, and satirical commentary on Russian society. The narrator frequently interrupts the narrative to address the reader directly. His discerning critique of society, eye for human foibles, gentle humor, and ability to engage his readers make this a charming and delightful read.

Highly recommended.

The Sense of an Ending

Julian Barnes

The Sense of an Ending by Julian Barnes unfolds in the first-person point of view of Tony Webster, a grandfather and retired divorcee. In two parts, the novel explores how memory can be manipulated to uphold our self-image.

Part 1 of the novel takes us back to Webster’s school days and early university years. He recalls his friendship with three boys, the most memorable of whom is his brilliant but enigmatic friend, Adrian Finn. Webster has a brief romance with the mysterious Veronica. After he breaks up with her, he receives a letter from Adrian asking his permission to go out with Veronica. Webster responds with a scathing letter, the details of which he glosses over until Veronica sends him a copy of his letter decades later. Shortly after sending the letter, he receives news of Adrian’s suicide.

Part 2 takes place around 40 years later. In the interim Webster reveals he has led a very ordinary life, been married and is now divorced, has a grown daughter, and is a grandfather. Having led a very humdrum existence by his own admission, he is surprised when he receives a letter from an attorney informing him of his inheritance of five hundred pounds from Veronica’s recently deceased mother, a woman he had met very briefly when he spent a weekend at Veronica’s home decades ago. She also left him Adrian’s diary. Webster receives the money, but Veronica, who has taken possession of Adrian’s diary, refuses to release it. There follows a cat and mouse game between Veronica and Webster about Adrian’s diary and about the events of the past. The situation is shrouded in a mystery which is partially resolved in the end. Although there is an ending, it is only the “sense” of an ending since much is left unanswered.

John Webster emerges as an unreliable, somewhat obtuse narrator. He seems to drift aimlessly through life, avoiding deep emotions and strong commitments. News of the death of Veronica’s mother and of Adrian’s diary, as well as his later interactions with Veronica, set him on a quest to re-evaluate his life and the veracity of his memories. He scrutinizes his past and acknowledges that he missed clues, probably mis-remembered much, and had refused to take responsibility for past mistakes.

This short novel explores the role of memory in reinforcing self-image—what we choose to remember, how we choose to remember it, and what we choose to forget. The ending denouement solves some of the mystery and triggers Webster’s epiphany, but since questions are left unanswered, the ending is not fully satisfying.

Small Things Like These

Claire Keegan

Claire Keegan’s novella, Small Things Like These, is a quiet read that packs a powerful punch.

The setting is a small Irish town in 1985, just before Christmas. Bill Furlong, the local coal merchant, is happily married and a loving and gentle father to his five daughters. The son of an unwed mother who worked as a live-in maid, he was raised in the home of his mother’s employer, a kind, generous woman who helped him gain access to middle-class status. Bill is hard-working and compassionate. He makes his coal deliveries to homes in the community and is appreciated and respected by the residents.

Just before Christmas, Bill makes a delivery to the local convent that functions as a Magdalen Laundry. Although the towns’ people suspect horrific abuses lurking in the convent, they choose to ignore them. The ostensible purpose of Magdalen Laundries, the last one of which closed down in 1996, was to rehabilitate young girls who were pregnant and/or fallen on hard times. Instead of a charitable haven, these institutions functioned as prisons, forcing girls into virtual slavery. Exploited and abused, the girls’ labor generated income for the convent’s laundry business. It is not known how many girls and infants died in these facilities as few records have been kept.

Bill encounters one of these young girls locked in the coal house when he delivers coal to the convent. She is shivering and barefoot. She reveals her baby was taken away from her and she has no knowledge of his whereabouts. Bill returns her to the convent but feels distinctly uneasy about doing so. Thoughts of the young girl and her dire predicament continue to haunt him. He decides to take matters into his own hands even though he is cautioned his decision might have negative repercussions on his family, especially his daughters’ ability to attend the Catholic school.

The novella does not elaborate on the horrors of the Magdalen Laundries. Instead, the focus is on Bill as he goes through the motions of the day, all the while haunted by the image of the young girl. He draws comparisons between the young girl and his own mother had her employer thrown her out for her illegitimate pregnancy. The tension slowly but powerfully builds up as Bill struggles with an unsettling situation he cannot ignore.

Bill’s response to injustice unfolds in powerful, lyrical diction. The details of small things and meaningful gestures accumulate as he struggles with his decision. The dialogue captures the beauty, pulse, and rhythm of the Irish spoken words. This gem of a novel, with its sensitive and courageous protagonist and its quiet, powerful diction will leave a lingering and profound impression.

Highly recommended.

The Lost Art of Scripture: Rescuing the Sacred Texts

Karen Armstrong

The depth and scope of Karen Armstrong’s expertise in scripture and the history of religion is on full display in The Lost Art of Scripture: Rescuing the Sacred Texts.

Armstrong argues there has been a gradual narrowing of focus in the major religious traditions, a narrowing that has accelerated over the last hundred years. Religious texts, which were once considered open-ended and a path to spiritual awareness and transcendence, have been distorted to promote a narrow set of beliefs and political agenda. She claims this impoverishment of scripture leads to arrogance, intolerance, religious bigotry, and violence. Instead of reading scripture to achieve transformation, Armstrong claims we now read it to confirm our views and to prove our enemies wrong. Alternatively, we dismiss it entirely. She advocates for a restoration of the original intent of all religious texts.

To support her argument, Armstrong traces the beginnings and historical developments of the major religious traditions, including Judaism, Christianity, Confucianism, Hinduism, Buddhism, Islam, as well as some of their offshoots. She discusses the major figures who have influenced the tradition and traces the trajectories of each tradition. She claims the diverse traditions have in common denial of the ego and insistence on the alleviation of the suffering of others, including those outside of one’s own group.

Armstrong distinguishes between the methodology and goals of science and those of Scripture. Unlike science, scripture is not morally neutral. Its goal is to facilitate our moral and spiritual transformation; to enhance our spiritualty; to enrich our humanity; to connect us with all of creation; and to evoke a sense of wonder, respect, and reverence for the cosmos, for the natural world, and for all that reside within it. Its methodology is non-scientific. Using ritual, music, and recitation to achieve its goals, scripture was never meant to be interpreted literally. It is intended to be evolving, flexible, and contextual.

Armstrong’s knowledge of the religious texts and traditions is extensive. She places each in its historical context and draws out parallels and similarities between the various traditions. Her scope is wide. But she drowns the reader with such an excess of detailed information that the material becomes unwieldy. She contextualizes a scripture in a historical era, then shifts to the development of a second, third, and fourth scripture during the same historical era. She then returns to the first scripture and moves it forward to the next phase in its historical development. The same format is repeated throughout. This discussion of alternating scriptures has the benefit of broadening scope and showing general global trends throughout various historical periods. But the excessive detail and shifting of traditions is confusing.

The panoramic scope of this work is impressive. The stated mission to rescue sacred texts from narrow, literal interpretations is highly commendable. But by assigning blame of the narrow reading of scripture to excessive reliance on left-brain thinking, Armstrong reduces a complex issue to a simplistic formula. However, if this extensive study spurs a re-reading of scripture that enhances compassion and understanding for the weak and marginalized, Karen Armstrong deserves our gratitude and praise.

The Milky Way: An Autobiography of Our Galaxy

Moiya McTier

In The Milky Way: An Autobiography of our Galaxy, Moiya McTier combines her Ph.D. in astrophysics with her knowledge and love of mythology to write an autobiography of the Milky Way.

Speaking in the first-person voice, the Milky Way announces it wants to tell its own story instead of relying on others to speak on its behalf. Accordingly, it describes its origins, its structure, its size, its changes over time, the birth and death of its stars, its neighbors, its enormous black hole, its likes and dislikes, and its ultimate demise. The language is conversational, but the science is detailed and extremely complex. It is quite the challenge to wrap one’s head around the billions of years of our galaxy’s existence; the billions of stars it encompasses; the magnitude of what is in our galaxy and beyond; and the distances measured in difficult-to-fathom light years.

The Milky Way describes our ancestors’ attempts to explain its presence through mythology, as well as the pivotal role it has played in advancing human culture and civilization. It explains astronomical discoveries of the past through to the present and shows how discoveries and calculations, building on each other, are constantly revised as new knowledge and information becomes available. And it reminds us of how much we have yet to learn.

The measurements, concepts, and terminology can be baffling for anyone with even a rudimentary background in astrophysics. Dr. McTier tries to demystify the complex educational content by peppering her discussion with references to popular movies and entertainment figures, adopting an irreverent tone, injecting an upbeat humor, and ridiculing human foibles. Her sardonic humor works up to a point, but some may find its excessive use tiresome after a while.

Any attempt to demystify science and to inject us with a dose of humility by reminding us of our barely-a-dot existence in the vastness of space is well-deserving of accolades. Kudos to Dr. McTier for having the courage to communicate what we have learned so far about the Milky Way in a fresh, highly original, accessible, and entertaining manner. Although much of the scientific information may be challenging to digest, there is still plenty to glean about the nature of our galaxy from her effort.

We are just an infinitesimal dot in the universe, but thanks to Dr. McTier, those of us who have no prior knowledge of astrophysics have a better understanding of just how infinitesimal we really are.

Recommended.

The Stationery Shop

Marjan Kamali

The Stationery Shop by Marjan Kamali is a love story that spans several decades beginning in 1953 in Iran.

Against the backdrop of political turmoil in Iran when different factions are vying for power, Bahman and Roya have a chance encounter in Mr. Fakhri’s stationery shop. Sharing a passion for Rumi’s poetry, the two begin to meet regularly in the stationery shop. Their love blossoms. In spite of fierce opposition from Bahman’s mother who has selected a different bride for her only son, Bahman and Roya become engaged. But politics and family intervention thwart their aspirations for marriage.

When a coup spearheaded by the Shah overthrows the Prime Minister, Iran erupts into violence. In the ensuing chaos, the lovers’ hope for marriage is sabotaged. They fail to meet at the designated time and place, each blaming the other for failing to show up. A broken-hearted Roya and her sister leave for America to study. They subsequently marry and reside in America. In spite of her happy marriage, Roya continues to be haunted by her love for Bahman and his failed promise. Decades later, a chance encounter enables her to visit Bahman and learn the truth of what happened on that fateful day.

The novel is a quick and easy read. It has some interesting segments on the political turmoil in Iran. There are also some mouth-watering sections describing the ingredients and preparation of Persian food. But it is primarily a story of thwarted love fueled by implausible coincidences and chance encounters that stretch believability. The love between Roya and Bahman burns furiously, consuming them for several decades. The duration and intensity of their love after so many decades makes the situation highly improbable. The novel is riddled with too many coincidences and chance encounters that stretch plausibility.

Family opposition to young love coupled with crossed messages and a character who tries but fails to unite the lovers has strong echoes of Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet. But unlike Shakespeare’s star-crossed lovers, Bahman and Roya fail to engage as characters. Roya’s obsession with Bahman that drags on for several decades is unrealistic, tiresome, and slows the novel down. A more realistic approach to the romance set against a backdrop with a heavier emphasis on Iran’s political upheaval would have done much to further reader interest and engagement.

Bitter Orange Tree

Jokha Alharthi; translated by Marilyn Booth

Bitter Orange Tree by Jokha Alharthi, translated from the Arabic by Marilyn Booth, unfolds in the first-person voice of Zuhour, a young Omani student studying at a British university. Zuhour braids together four threads in a non-linear structure, dipping spontaneously in and out of the threads until each is gradually revealed in its entirety. Her voice is plagued with guilt, regrets, and unshakeable sorrow.

The primary thread explores the back story of Bint Aamir, Zuhour’s adoptive grandmother, who dies shortly after Zuhour leaves Oman for her studies. Bint Aamir’s back story reveals the struggles of her early childhood after she and her brother are cast out of their home. Upon her brother’s death, she moves in with her relatives, Zuhour’s grandfather and his family. She raises Zuhour’s father as if he were her son, and raises his children—Zuhour and her two siblings—as their surrogate grandmother. Zuhour describes Bint Aamir as tall, proud, intelligent, selfless, and a childless spinster fiercely protective of the adopted children under her care. Taken for granted, ignored, blind in one eye, Bint Aamir’s physical condition deteriorates with age until she is no longer able to walk. After her death, Zuhour is haunted by the sound of her voice, pleading for companionship.

The second thread is of Zuhour’s older sister, Sumayaa. Described as an energetic, lively, talkative dynamo in her youth, she enters her marriage full of hopes and dreams. Her husband physically abuses and torments her, and despite her repeated attempts to return to her family, she is always sent back to live with him. After his accidental death, Sumayaa loses her voice and will not—or cannot—speak.

The third thread involves Zuhour’s class mates, two Pakistani sisters, Kuhl and Suroor. Kuhl is in love with Imran, a young Pakistani from a rural, impoverished background. She marries him in secret, afraid to tell her parents who would never approve of her marriage to someone beneath her social class. Zuhour becomes part of their circle and is attracted to Imran.

The fourth thread depicts Zuhour’s struggles with living in a foreign country, speaking a foreign language, and accommodating to a foreign culture.

The narrative constantly shifts between these four threads in a series of vignettes and anecdotes. Peppered throughout are Zuhour’s dreams, memories, and glimpses of Omani life. A mournful tone permeates as Zuhour considers the plight of different generations of women who have in common cultures that deny women freedom and agency. She is burdened with grief over the trajectory of her grandmother’s life, her sister’s crushed spirit, and Kuhl’s need for secrecy. The narrative offers no resolutions, no expressions of hope—just sorrow and despair.

Alharthi demonstrates sympathy for the plight of women and their suffering. She successfully captures a sense of mourning and profound sadness, but the novel is missing narrative build-up, movement, and character development. All that is offered are a series of vignettes of thwarted female aspirations. That may be sufficient for some readers; but others may be left wanting and hoping for more.

Keats: A Brief Life in Nine Poems and One Epitaph

Lucasta Miller

In her biography, Keats: A Brief Life in Nine Poems and One Epitaph, Lucasta Miller breathes life into John Keats, the person. The strength of her work lies in portraying Keats as a fully embodied, living, breathing human being with both feet planted firmly on the ground while his genius soared to dazzling heights.

Keats emerges as a sensitive, complex figure. He was considered an outsider in class and social status. He came from a dysfunctional family; was abandoned by his mother; was plagued with money-issues as an adult; had no fixed abode; possessed an undying passion for sensual language and word play; and harbored a fierce commitment to composing poetry. Keats’ genius was cut short when he died at the young age of twenty-five. He struggled during his life and did not receive the recognition and acclaim he was to receive after his death. He is now considered one of the greatest poets in English Literature. His poems, especially his Odes, are a staple diet in literature anthologies.

Miller explores nine of Keats’ most famous poems and his epitaph. She begins each chapter by citing the poem or a short excerpt from it if it is lengthy. She then contextualizes the poem by discussing the circumstances that gave birth to it. Where was Keats living when he wrote it? Who was he with? What did his conversations and letters reveal about his thinking? What was the catalyst that triggered its composition? What/who were his influences?

Miller analyzes Keats’ family background; education; prolific letter-writing, especially to his brother George and sister-in-law Georgiana; living arrangements; and the conversations recorded by his friends. These form the backdrop to her discussion and interpretation of Keats’ most famous poems. But whereas her work presents a commendable guide to Keats’ life, and whereas she paints a compelling picture of Keats the individual, her interpretation of his poems is subject to debate, especially her predilection for seeing in them evidence of Keats’ ostensible ambivalence toward women, his frustrations, and his political leanings.

Keats’ poems, especially his Odes, deserve better than to be reduced to historical, sociological, or psychological evidence for what Keats the man was experiencing at the time. These poems are sensuous, beautiful, and brilliant works of literature that stand on their own merit. They are not fodder for sociology, psychology, or history. Any interpretation of the poems should be grounded in the actual words of the texts themselves since once pen is put to paper, a work of literature takes on a life of its own regardless of who, what, when, where, how, or why it is written. To read Keats’ poems as statements about Keats the man or as indicators of the internal conflicts within the mind of Keats the man is to perform a disservice to Keats the poet.

Keats the poet deserves more than this. And so do the poems that attest to his genius.

The Tablet of Destinies

Roberto Calasso; translated by Tim Parks

The Tablet of Destinies by Roberto Calasso, translated from the Italian by Tim Parks, is a slim volume that delves into myths from Mesopotamia.

The narrative unfolds in the form of a conversation between Utnapishtim and Sindbad the Sailor. A shipwrecked Sindbad turns up on the island of Dilmun where Utnapishtim and his wife have lived for thousands of years ever since they were granted eternal life by the gods. Hungry for company and eager to tell his stories, Utnapishtim takes advantage of Sindbad as his captive audience.

Utnapishtim weaves together episodes of different myths from Mesopotamia. Included is the story of warring gods, the defeat of Tiamat, and the ascendance of Marduk in the Enuma Elish, also known as The Babylonian Creation; the friendship between Gilgamesh and Enkidu, the flood story, and Utnapishtim’s immortality in the Epic of Gilgamesh; and Ishtar/Inanna’s possession of the mes, her marriage, and her descent into the underworld in The Hymn to Inanna: Queen of Heaven and Earth. Episodes from these and other myths appear intermittently, looping in and out of each other’s stories. Eventually, each myth is told in its entirety, but its episodes are scattered throughout and have to be pieced together at the end of the narrative. This mingling of myths suggest they should not be viewed as separate entities but as different iterations of a continuous, cohesive whole.

Most of the conversation is conducted by Utnapishtim, eager to tell his story. Sindbad occasionally interrupts with a short tale of his own or a question. More often than not, Utnapishtim is unable to provide an adequate response, claiming to be simply repeating what was revealed to him by the god Ea. He frequently sounds baffled by his predicament, unsure if the gods have forgotten about him. He waits. And he tells his stories.

Utnapishtim has accepted his fate, but this acceptance is tinged with notes of melancholy. He emerges as a compelling character, embroiled in a circumstance not of his own making, unsure of what the gods want from him, and desperate to transmit his stories. His blurring together of the different myths suggests he sees them as one long, uninterrupted narrative of our beginnings. Although he narrates weighty, mythological events that presumably go back to the beginning of time and the creation of humans, he adopts a matter-of-fact tone throughout. His goal is to transmit the stories to someone who will carry them off the island since he is unable to do so, himself.

Calasso has provided a vigorous rendition of these myths. The looping in and out of different myths makes for fascinating reading, especially if one can recognize which episode came which myth and how they blend together to make a cohesive whole. But this technique is rewarding for those already familiar with the mythology of ancient Mesopotamia. For others, it may prove to be too much of a challenge.

Recommended.

Gilgamesh: A New Translation of the Ancient Epic with Essays on the Poem, its Past, and its Passion

Sophus Helle

Gilgamesh: A New Translation of the Ancient Epic with Essays on the Poem, its Past, and its Passion by Sophus Helle, in addition to being a brilliant new translation, includes five essays in which Helle provides commentary, analysis, insights, and interpretation. Helle’s structural analysis and close reading of the text is fresh, illuminating, and inspiring.

In his Introduction, Helle discusses the fragmentary nature of the Gilgamesh series of tablets that have so far been discovered and deciphered. He explains the nature of the cuneiform system of writing and provides a detailed description of his methodology in translating the poem. Raised dots indicate missing sections and whole lines are left blank if scholars have determined the number of missing lines. The reader is given a visual representation of how much of the epic is missing. Helle translates directly from the Akkadian but also identifies and includes the Old Babylonian Version and the Standard Babylonian Version when the versions differ. The translation includes copious footnotes and an extensive bibliography.

The five essays following the translation include commentary, interpretation, and an exploration of the main themes. Through close textual and structural analysis, Helle garners dazzling new insights, breathing life into the text. The Prologue reveals it is Gilgamesh who sets down his story, making the poem an autobiography told in the third person. Helle argues the wording at the end of the poem, far from being abrupt, is designed to lead us back to its beginning. He compares it to a snake biting its tail, a looping strategy designed to encourage continuous reading. He explores the significance of the wall of Uruk, interpreting it as structure and metaphor and identifies the poem’s different literary forms. And since the Prologue invites us to read the poem aloud, Helle concludes it was probably recited and/or performed in front of an audience.

These valuable insights continue at a dizzying pace. Helle suggests the poem should be read as a series with each Tablet as a rounded, self-contained episode and with the whole forming a larger story. His analysis of Gilgamesh’s character—his excessive desire, surplus energy, and aggressive tendencies—is particularly astute and explains much of what was otherwise baffling in Gilgamesh’s behavior. And, finally, Helle argues that Gilgamesh’s greatest achievement is to learn from Uta-napishti the skill of storytelling and its role in achieving his much sought-after immortality.

Helle’s scholarship is impressive. Avoiding academic jargon, his style is clear, accessible, and engaging. His analysis is thoughtful and inspiring. He reveals the depth and enduring qualities of this ancient masterpiece, breathes new life into it, and convincingly argues for its continued resonance and relevance.

This brilliant, exciting translation and commentary is highly recommended for those approaching the poem for the first time and for others who have read multiple translations.

The Fish Can Sing

Halldor Laxness; trans. Magnus Magnussun

The Fish Can Sing by Halldor Laxness, translated from the Icelandic by Magnus Magnusson, unfolds in the first-person voice of Alfgrimur, an orphan. Abandoned by his mother in a small fishing village on the outskirts of Reykjavik, Alfgrimur is raised by an elderly couple who become his surrogate grandparents.

Growing up in the humble cottage at Brekkukot, Alfgrimur shares his home with a motley crew of eccentric characters from all walks of life who traipse in and out of his grandparents’ home, availing themselves of their hospitality. Some stop there on their way to somewhere else; others come there to await death. Alfgrimur describes their mannerisms, clothing, habits, anecdotes, euphemisms, and philosophical outpourings as they gather together in the evenings. The characters are unique, quirky, and treated with fondness and respect.

A prominent figure in the novel is the elusive Garðor Holm who rose from humble beginnings in the village to become a world-famous singer and Alfgrimur’s conflicted mentor. Alfgrimur’s grandfather, known as Björn of Brekkukot, is a generous, compassionate man of few words who behaves with integrity, dignity, and charity. Alfgrimur’s grandmother instils in him respect for others and generosity of spirit. The two are memorable characters, speaking primarily through their actions. Their few words are imbued with wisdom and compassion for the less fortunate. Their goodness and humility represent a bygone era.

Although the word “love” is not spoken in the home and demonstrable physical affection is eschewed, Alfgrimur grows up in a loving, secure environment. His goal is to live within the confines of his small village since that is all he has ever known and loved; his ambition is to be a fisherman like his grandfather. He struggles to find his place in a world in which modernity encroaches on simple village life, transforming lives and livelihoods as it does so. Alfgrimur’s grandparents recognize the impending changes and insist on an education and a better future for their adopted grandson.

Laxness paints a touching portrait of a small village in rural Iceland in the early twentieth-century where a way of life is slowly dying with the encroachment of modernity. Traditional ways of being and doing clash with a modern business class espousing differing values. This clash threads its way throughout the novel, generating a nostalgic tone for the past and a concern for the future.

Laxness’ diction is immersive. The smells, sights, sounds, and activities of an Icelandic fishing village are brought vividly to life. The narrative voice is whimsical, ambling, and replete with affectionate humor. The movement is slow and meandering. The intimate, ethereal quality of the prose; the affectionate treatment of the eccentric characters which populate its pages; and the endearing snapshot of a quaint Icelandic village at the turn of the century work in unison to make this a memorable read.

Highly recommended.

Ovid's Heroides: A New Translation and Critical Essays by Paul Murgatroyd, Bridget Reeves, and Sarah Parker

Ovid’s Heroides: A New Translation and Critical Essays by Paul Murgatroyd, Bridget Reeves, and Sarah Parker is designed as a textbook for students of Ovid and/or classical mythology.

The work consists of translations of Ovid’s fictional letters, in Latin verse, written in the first-person voices of prominent female figures in Greek and Roman mythology. The twenty-one letters are addressed to spouses and lovers. Among the voices we hear is Penelope scolding Odysseus for his delayed homecoming; Briseis writing to a sulking Achilles; Phaedra attempting to seduce Hippolytus; Dido alternating between pleading with and berating Aeneas; Ariadne cursing Theseus; Medea spewing venom at Jason; and Helen coyly responding to Paris’ attempts at seduction. Included in the twenty-one letters are a few in the voice of the male hero addressing his female beloved.

The authors situate each letter/poem by providing background and context. This is essential since the letters refer to characters and events in classical mythology which may not be familiar to all readers. Each letter is succeeded by critical remarks, commentary, highlights of salient features, questions to stimulate critical thinking on the poem and on the characteristics of the letter-writer, and references for further reading. When relevant, the authors include brief mention of later representations in literature, art, film, and music of a myth and its characters.

The letters are variations of the same themes: love, betrayal, and pleas for rescue from abduction or abandonment. The tone varies depending on the situation of the ostensible letter-writer. Ovid exposes the writer’s raw emotions through the first-person voice. Some of the letters are witty and amusing. Some are riddled with anxiety. Some are positively angry. And some reflect the heart-break of abandonment and abject helplessness.

Ovid’s experience with exile and marginalization may have led him to sympathize with others who had been similarly marginalized and rendered voiceless by society. By articulating the perspective of women and giving voice to the voiceless, Ovid undertook a task that is remarkable for a man of his time and place. His Heroides is a rich, lively, and entertaining reading experience that deserves wider circulation than it has so far received.

Recommended.

The Faraway Nearby

Rebecca Solnit

Rebecca Solnit opens her memoir The Faraway Nearby with a chapter on the one hundred pounds of apricots she receives from her mother. She dutifully spreads the apricots out on a sheet in her bedroom floor to prevent them from crushing each other. Each day she observes them in their different shades and different stages of ripening. And as she does so, she tells the story of her contentious relationship with her mother, beginning with her mother’s constant criticisms and rejections which continued well into her adult life until her mother’s gradual descent into Alzheimer’s.

As Solnit spins her tale, she traverses a wide array of topics, including Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein, Shahrazad’s story-telling, Che Guevara’s work with lepers, her battle with breast cancer, fairy tales, her stay in Iceland, arctic explorers and arctic survivors, the blank slate of the snowy arctic, the visual arts, labyrinths, empathy and distance, absence, numbness, and spinning a tale of self. The recurring themes throughout are her relationship with her mother, the intricate interconnectedness and changeability of all things, and the stories we tell that make us who we are. “We think we tell stories, but often stories tell us,” she says.

Solnit’s tone is quiet, meditative, and intimate. Her voice is authentic. She takes seemingly disparate stories and connects them in surprising ways, weaving in stories from mythology as she does so. She structures her narrative so chapters mirror each other. Her opening chapter of “Apricots” is succeeded by five chapters and a middle chapter called “Knots.” Solnit then unties the knot or unravels the thread by repeating the same chapter headings in reverse order and concluding with “Apricots.” She is a Penelope weaving her tapestry by day and unwinding it at night.

With the final chapter, we come full circle, beginning and ending with “Apricots.” But we are not in the same place because Solnit is no longer the same person she was in the opening chapter. She has undergone a transformation as a result of her experiences and her story-telling. The apricots assume a metaphorical significance. They are the memories she needs to sort, preserve, and discard from her memory bank. Through the telling of her story, she loses pieces of her former self, experiences a death of sorts, and gives birth to herself anew. And as with all birth and death, pain is intrinsic to the process.

Solnit begins her memoir by challenging the reader with a question, “What’s your story?” She prompts us on our journey by sharing her story with sensitivity, depth, empathy, insight, and a profound sense of the interconnectedness and fragility of life. Everything changes, she reminds us. Nothing stays the same.

Solnit’s intimate and precious gift of her journey inspires us to reflect on our own story, the story that makes us who we are.

Highly recommended.

Pandora's Jar: Women in the Greek Myths

Natalie Haynes

Pandora’s Jar: Women in the Greek Myths by Natalie Haynes explores ten famous women in classical mythology by dedicating a chapter to each woman.

Beginning with Pandora and concluding with Penelope, Haynes examines the literary sources of these mythological figures, their various appearances in classical plays, poems, and artifacts, as well as their more recent manifestations in art, music, theatre, and film. Her exploration includes Jocasta, Helen of Troy, Medusa, Clytemnestra, Eurydice, Phaedra, Medea, and the Amazons.

By exploring their representation in various classical works, Haynes expands our understanding of these figures. Her interrogation demonstrates their contradictory portrayals even within the classical period. They were used as scapegoats for the failings of men; as tools to implement a god’s vengeance; punished for being victims of male aggression; outsmarting their male counterparts; unfairly depicted as villains and monsters; and blamed for situations over which they had no control. She fleshes out these women, giving them voice and a nuanced portrayal.

Among the classical playwrights, Euripides emerges as a favorite for writing strong roles for women and for placing them center stage instead of relegating them to the margins. He gives voice to their suffering and subordinate status as no other classical writer has done. His Medea is praised for its portrayal of a brilliant, scheming woman whose speeches about the position of women in patriarchy continue to resonate centuries later.

Haynes is well-versed in the classics. She provides a broad outline of the texts in which each of the women appear. And then she interrogates the text and poses questions to challenge the predominant lens of male privilege. She peppers her analysis with Greek and Latin words, translating them and explaining their linguistic ambiguities. She argues our perspective on these women has been colored by centuries of a skewed interpretation of language influenced by a misogynistic lens. She aims to encourage a re-visioning of these women and offers a new and invigorating re-interpretation of their role in mythology.

Haynes’ feminist analysis of these famous women in classical texts is accessible, lively, and peppered with humor and wit. Although her extensive knowledge of classical literature is apparent, she doesn’t weigh the work down with heavy scholarship. Her language is accessible and engaging; her interpretations are provocative and refreshing.  She challenges the reader to re-visit the women in classical mythology with a fresh look and a more nuanced and balanced lens.

Highly recommended.

Out Stealing Horses

Per Petterson; trans. Anne Born

Out Stealing Horses by Per Petterson, translated from the Norwegian by Anne Born, unfolds in the first-person point of view of Trond Sander, a sixty-seven-year-old man who has retired to a small, isolated village in Norway. He wants only to be left alone with his dog and to surround himself with nature as he struggles to find the time and space he needs to reflect. He is painfully self-conscious, sensitive, and honest. He wants to fit in with his rural surroundings and fend for himself as if to prove he can make it alone.

Trond describes in meticulous detail his daily activities and chores as he prepares his small home for winter. As he does so, he reflects on his life, focusing on a summer when he was fifteen years old and staying with his father in a cabin in Norway. It was during that summer his best friend, Jon, carelessly left his loaded hunting rifle at his home. His younger brother picked up the rifle and fired at his twin, accidentally killing him. The incident traumatized Jon who disappeared from Trond’s life. It also impacted Trond. The memory resurfaces when Trond discovers that his closest neighbor in this isolated village is none other than Lars, Jon’s brother who accidentally shot his twin.

The novel alternates between Trond’s activities in the present and flashbacks of that summer. The threads intermingle with a scene or activity in the present conjuring up a memory from the past. Trond talks to himself as if he trying to come to terms with the events of that summer, when he learned his father, Jon’s mother, and a family friend were part of the resistance during Nazi Germany’s occupation of Norway. His father was a courier for the resistance, smuggling documents and people across the border to Sweden. It was also during that summer he bonded with his father, a bond that is shattered when his father sends a flippant letter to his wife and children, announcing his disappearance from their lives.

Trond’s melancholy saturates his reflections and activities. He feels deeply, but as a character, he remains elusive since we are never permitted to penetrate his shell. His focus on performing daily, labor-intensive chores provide satisfaction and a sense of achievement. But they are also a tactic to delay him in dealing with the pain he feels at the death of Jon’s brother, his father’s disappearance from his life, and the deaths of his sister and wife. Wherever he goes, he is reminded of the events of that summer. His understanding of the past has changed now that he reflects on it with the eyesight and maturity of old age. But there are aspects of it that continue to elude him.

The tone is elegiac; the sentences long and rhythmic, connected by a series of ‘ands’ that accumulate detail. An overriding sense of loss permeates this story of an old man reflecting on his life and the difficult memories that surface. His temporal shifts serve as a reminder that the past is never really past. We carry it with us always. It impacts our self-image, our lives, and our relationships with others. And, as in the case of Trond, it can continue to haunt us many decades later.

A quiet, poignant, and compelling meditation on aging and loss.

Highly recommended.

Salka Valka

Halldor Laxness; translated by Philip Roughton

Salka Valka is epic in scope. Written by the 1955 Nobel Prize winner for Literature Halldor Laxness, and translated from the Icelandic by Philip Roughton, it tells of the struggles of a small fishing village in Iceland. The central character is Salka Valka, the young, illegitimate daughter of a destitute mother.

Salka is eleven years old when we first meet her. Having run out of funds to get to Reykjavik, she and her mother arrive at the village of Óseyri in Axlarfjörður. The two seek shelter and end up at the Salvation Army building. Even at this young age, Salka is outspoken, headstrong, and independent. The two eventually find permanent lodging and young Salka begins working in the fishing industry to earn an income.

We follow the trials of these two individuals, their interaction with the villagers, her mother’s involvement with the Salvation Army, and their gradual estrangement from each other. Salka becomes increasingly independent and self-reliant. Deemed an anomaly among the village women, she is outspoken, strong, hard-working, and has the audacity to wear men’s trousers. Her hard work pays off, enabling her to own a share of a fishing boat. She becomes a union organizer for the fishermen and advocates for their rights. All the while she contends with sexual abuse and harassment. And on more than one occasion, she acknowledges her lack of femininity, perceiving herself as a boy.

Salka is courted by two men. She falls in love with her childhood sweetheart who exploits her love for him; she is simultaneously attracted and repelled by her mother’s former fiancé, a drunken, bedraggled boor who transforms himself into a successful, sober tycoon and claims her as his muse.

The second half of the novel is embroiled in politics as the villagers are courted by the “Bolshies” on one side and the “Independents” on the other. Laxness presents both sides of the debate at length. The villagers fluctuate from one side to the other at the slightest whim and without fully comprehending the ramifications of their choice. This section gets too bogged down in the pros and cons of political discourse, slowing the narrative down unnecessarily. Salka Valka gets tossed around in the political turmoil. She tries to maintain independence, focusing on the path she thinks will best help the fishing industry, but she eventually sides with her lover, a spokesperson for the Bolshie cause.

Laxness’ diction is sparse and realistic. Against the backdrop of a bleak landscape are the villagers struggles with Iceland’s weather, isolation, poverty, and meagre existence. The novel can be unwieldy at times, especially during the drawn-out political fracas. However, Laxness sustains reader interest through his keen eye for detailing the topography, the harshness of village life, the scruffy children, and the chorus-like villagers. They are a bedraggled, lice-ridden, smelly, rough, impoverished, and gossipy lot. They are also undeniably real and depicted with sensitivity and compassion. His greatest success lies in his depiction of Salka Valka. He captures the tortured spirit and complexity of this extraordinary young girl with tenderness and honesty—a remarkable achievement since he was only in his late twenties when he composed the novel.

An epic novel, wide in scope, and immersive in detail. Highly recommended.